


Simbelmynë

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sam visits a hobbit.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 9
Kudos: 30





	Simbelmynë

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He coalesces onto two stout legs with two brown hands right outside of Hobbiton, on a long stretch of vivid green grass amidst a sprinkling of trees. Arien’s bright light beats down onto his face, Manwë’s gentle wind ruffling his curly hair. Sam closes his eyes and breathes in Middle Earth, so different from Valinor, yet now just as welcoming. 

He shakes off the wisps of the Maia he once was and strolls forward as a mortal, at least for the time being, until Yavanna asks him back again and he hurries to her side. Though he’s never quite had the courage to say it aloud, he thinks she knows where he goes in his spare time, and she must not begrudge him for it, because when he returns with dirt beneath his nails and foreign flowers in his eyes, she still smiles to see him. He smiles back and bows his head, always honoured to be with her. He never thought he’d serve another master. Yet he willingly wanders along the rolling hills to the lilting slope of Bagshot Row, lined in yellow sunflowers and spring-white daisies. He planted many himself and grew still more up the hill. The shadows of his towering rose bushes wind down the cobbled path, and Sam comes to Bag End, where everything is just as lovely as he left it, _almost_ as lovely as Yavanna’s own garden. 

It’s his own little patch of the heavens. He pads through the gate and feels the warm earth beneath his toes, sees the ivy climbing up the smial and hears the rustle of dancing leaves. There’s little to tend to, because he does it all so often and so faithfully, with all the skill of Yavanna’s own hands and all the love a Maia could give. But he’ll find something to do, always does. Sam creeps slowly through the grass, feeling it flatten beneath his soles, and looks for weeds that belong in the wild instead of his master’s yard. Spotting the smallest sprout of a stray daffodil, Sam bends down to catch it. 

He hears a latch give way and turns just in time to see Frodo Baggins peering out the round window. His big beautiful eyes catch on Sam’s, and he smiles, coming to lean over the sill so the sun makes his skin glow. Of all the flowers Sam’s ever seen, he’s never found one quite so stunning as that picture: Mr. Frodo, the fairest thing that ever grew. When his lips curve up, his cheeks dimpling and eyes squinting, Sam’s heart seizes in his chest, his pulse racing fast, and all the blood in his body flushing to the surface. Frodo calls out to him, “Good Morning, Sam. Have you come to work already? It’s much too early for it. And I was just about to put the kettle on. Would you like to come in for a spot of tea before you start?”

Of course, this was never something he meant to do—not something he _should_ do, interact with the little folk instead of just guiding Yavanna’s seeds. But this has become what he really came for—the hope of such an offer, and if he shouldn’t have that, then just the quiet knowledge of Frodo Baggins existing nearby: a beacon of pure joy for Sam to bask in. Really, Sam should resist that vast temptation and remember what he is. 

He does his best to answer, “Why, that’s very kind, Mr. Frodo, Sir, but I shouldn’t wish to impose—”

And of course Frodo, dear, sweet Frodo, laughs joyously and counters, “How could you be imposing when I’m the one to suggest it? Really, Sam. It would be my pleasure. Do say you’ll come.”

And Sam’s becoming more mortal every day, because he’s so drawn to his greatest weakness—this one pretty creature that turns Yavanna’s herbs into sober wine and shines like Varda’s stars, promising dreams greater than Irmo’s and offering the peace of Estë. 

One day, Sam knows, he’ll dwell too long in this deep love, and he’ll forget everything else—he’ll leave his true form behind, never able to return across the sea, and he’ll fade without even the promise of Námo’s keep. Mortals burn bright but die in an instant, forever lost to memory.

And this day might be the one Sam loses to, because he answers, “In that case, I’d love some tea. Thank you, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo nods his head and leaves the window, flittering off to open the front door. Sam leaves the dandelion where it lies and goes right where he’s bidden, too happy to care how far he’ll fall.


End file.
